One thing was for sure. She was known to the man calling himself Matthew Marr.
CHAPTER 30
Narey’s gaze switched between the monitors. One with the young man twitching uncontrollably, his left leg kicking out despite not being awake. She knew the medical opinion was that his heart rate was increasing, racing like a rabbit on the run. He was asleep but in overdrive.
If that was bad, the second screen was somehow worse. The green light blinking. The text from Marr creeping across the page. It sickened her but she had to talk to the man.
How come you knew Ethan Garland’s name, but he never knew yours?
He told me his. I didn’t tell him mine. It’s simple.
Okay. Why did he tell you and why didn’t you tell him yours?
Because of where we met, there was a choice to be made and he made a different one from me.
Explain. How did you meet Garland?
Where do any two people meet these days? Online.
On a website? Chat room?
Not in the sense you mean, no. Not one you’d find or would have heard of.
Something on the dark web?
More deep than dark. And stop fishing, I’m not telling you where it was. And it doesn’t matter. We got talking in a safe space and we found we had things in common.
Were you talking in a place where you were likely to have things in common?
Maybe. But some people are all talk. Ethan wasn’t, neither was I. We both knew that pretty quickly.
When you say things in common, let’s be clear what you’re talking about.
I think you know. You just want to hear me say it? Like it’s evidence? We thought similarly. Very similarly. I knew almost right away that he was someone like me.
Yet you didn’t tell him who you really were?
I knew I could be open about myself. But I still wasn’t stupid enough to trust him with everything. He was that stupid, that was his choice. I protected myself with an alias. I suspect he knew that but he never asked. That suited us both.
So how much more did you know about him than he knew about you?
Quite a bit. I told him some things that were true and some that weren’t. We knew all the things we needed to carry out our shared ventures. We knew each other’s tastes.
The words soured her mouth before she typed them.
In victims?
Yes.
You chose his and he chose yours?
Within certain parameters. And we had discretion to say no thank you.
So, you chose this guy that’s chained up?
I found him. Ethan chose to take him.
How you could you find him? You were five thousand miles away.
Don’t try to play me. The internet makes the world a smaller place and you know it. The kid knew I was a voice in the ether and that was all he needed to know.
Do you know Los Angeles?
I know how to use Google. And I know stuff Ethan taught me. It was more than enough to bait my hook and catch me a little fishy.
So why couldn’t Ethan have just done that himself?
He could have, but that wasn’t our play. We had our own game.
Want to tell me about it?
No. You get paid to work it out. Maybe you already have.
Maybe. So what did Ethan tell you about LA?
He hated it. Hated the traffic and the people, hated the phonies and the freaks, the YouTubers and the wannabe celebrities, the hypocrites and the hippies. He hated LA but never went anywhere else. Thing about Ethan was he loved the Los Angeles he grew up in. He hated change. Said change always made things worse.
What do you mean?
Never mind. I read something once. It was by a defence lawyer, saying that everybody is more than the worst thing they’ve ever done. That’s true, right?
I can see why you’d want it to be true.
But it stands to reason, doesn’t it? Everyone is better than their worst?
So, if someone once put a tenner in the poor box and helped an old lady across the road then we judge him by that rather than that he shot three people in cold blood?
Yes. It shows his best is better than his worst.
Best is better than worst. It’s a dictionary definition, not a way of judging a person’s character or behaviour. One decent act, even a hundred of them, is overshadowed by the worst thing a person does, if that thing is bad enough. If you have done good things in your life, and it’s to be expected you have, then you’re still going to be your worst thing. That’s what defines you.
The silence was drawn out, but finally, fatally, punctured by his response.
What if I haven’t done my worst thing yet?
Chilled, Narey’s fingers rattled the keyboard.
Then you’ll be judged by that.
You do know I’m aware that everything you say, everything you ask, is about trying to catch me out? That you’re trying to trip me up, get some info out of me.
You’d be pretty stupid not to.
I’m not stupid.
Well that’s okay then. Can we continue?
You won’t get anything from me.
Maybe I already have. Can we move on?
She assumed the pause was either rage or sulking but didn’t care much which.
Okay, ask me your question.
How did you know that you and Garland were the same? What was it you said, that he was ‘someone like me’?
I just knew. Things he said. The way he said them. When I told him some of the things I’ve done in my life, he didn’t react the way other people had. I’d told people before. Online, anonymously. They freaked mostly. Ethan didn’t. He was interested. And he had his own stories to tell.
How did you know he wasn’t just full of bullshit? Trying to impress you.
You’re not listening. It was how he said it more than what he said. It was how he felt. Only someone like me and him could know that.
You’re ill, Matthew. Sick. You know that, right? How can you even function around normal people?
She was pushing him and didn’t care that Dakers was signalling caution.
I’m normal. I’m my kind of normal. I live my life and no one knows but me. I function just the same as other people when I want to. And I function like me when I want to too. That’s my trick.
Your trick? That’s how you think of it?
It’s just a word.
It’s an arrogant fucking boast, is what it is. A trick? You think being a functioning psycho doesn’t make you a psycho? Being able to switch emotions on and off isn’t a party trick, it’s a mental illness.
I’m not ill. They thought I was ill, but I wasn’t. Stupid bastards at Carstairs wasted time on me. I’m not ill. I can control myself. It’s my trick.
Carstairs was the State Hospital. Where patients were admitted because of dangerous or violent tendencies, usually by the prison service or the court.
When were you in Carstairs?
Fuck you. It doesn’t matter. I’m not ill. That’s all you need to know. And all I need is to see this guy die.
She’d happily have ripped his eyes out with her nails if she could. She ripped the plug on the conversation instead.
You’ll see what I let you see and don’t forget it. Goodbye.
It maybe wasn’t as much as she’d hoped for, but she’d got something from him at least. It was her trick.
The line flashed from LA again. ‘Nice job, Rachel. You really pushed his buttons,’